Twenty years after
the king as well as the minister.
“Onward!” cried D’Artagnan, in a loud voice.
“Onward!” cried Porthos.
But as if the multitude had waited only for this demonstration to burst
out, all the sentiments of hostility that possessed it exploded
simultaneously. Cries of “Down with Mazarin!” “Death to the cardinal!”
resounded on all sides.
At the same time through the streets of Grenelle, Saint Honoré, and Du
Coq, a double stream of people broke the feeble hedge of Swiss guards
and came like a whirlwind even to the very legs of Porthos’s horse and
that of D’Artagnan.
This new eruption was more dangerous than the others, being composed of
armed men. It was plain that it was not the chance combination of those
who had collected a number of the malcontents at the same spot, but a
concerted organized attack.
Each of these mobs was led by a chief, one of whom appeared to belong,
not to the people, but to the honorable corporation of mendicants, and
the other, notwithstanding his affected imitation of the people, might
easily be discerned to be a gentleman. Both were evidently stimulated
by the same impulse.
There was a shock which was perceived even in the royal carriage.
Myriads of hoarse cries, forming one vast uproar, were heard, mingled
with guns firing.
“Ho! Musketeers!” cried D’Artagnan.
The escort divided into two files. One of them passed around to the
right of the carriage, the other to the left. One went to support
D’Artagnan, the other Porthos. Then came a skirmish, the more terrible
because it had no definite object; the more melancholy, because those
engaged in it knew not for whom they were fighting. Like all popular
movements, the shock given by the rush of this mob was formidable. The
musketeers, few in number, not being able, in the midst of this crowd,
to make their horses wheel around, began to give way. D’Artagnan
offered to lower the blinds of the royal carriage, but the young king
stretched out his arm, saying:
“No, sir! I wish to see everything.”
“If your majesty wishes to look out—well, then, look!” replied
D’Artagnan. And turning with that fury which made him so formidable, he
rushed toward the chief of the insurgents, a man who, with a huge sword
in his hand, was trying to hew a passage to the coach door through the
musketeers.
“Make room!” cried D’Artagnan. “Zounds! give way!”
At these words the man with a pistol and sword raised his head, but it
was too late. The blow was sped by D’Artagnan; the rapier had pierced
his bosom.
“Ah! confound it!” cried the Gascon, trying in vain, too late, to
retract the thrust. “What the devil are you doing here, count?”
“Accomplishing my destiny,” replied Rochefort, falling on one knee. “I
have already got up again after three stabs from you, I shall never
rise after this fourth.”
“Count!” said D’Artagnan, with some degree of emotion, “I struck
without knowing that it was you. I am sorry, if you die, that you
should die with sentiments of hatred toward me.”
Rochefort extended his hand to D’Artagnan, who took it. The count
wished to speak, but a gush of blood stifled him. He stiffened in the
last convulsions of death and expired.
“Back, people!” cried D’Artagnan, “your leader is dead; you have no
longer any business here.”
Indeed, as if De Rochefort had been the very soul of the attack, the
crowd who had followed and obeyed him took to flight on seeing him
fall. D’Artagnan charged, with a party of musketeers, up the Rue du
Coq, and the portion of the mob he assailed disappeared like smoke,
dispersing near the Place Saint Germain-l’Auxerrois and taking the
direction of the quays.
D’Artagnan returned to help Porthos, if Porthos needed help; but
Porthos, for his part, had done his work as conscientiously as
D’Artagnan. The left of the carriage was as well cleared as the right,
and they drew up the blind of the window which Mazarin, less heroic
than the king, had taken the precaution to lower.
Porthos looked very melancholy.
“What a devil of a face you have, Porthos! and what a strange air for a
victor!”
“But you,” answered Porthos, “seem to me agitated.”
“There’s a reason! Zounds! I have just killed an old friend.”
“Indeed!” replied Porthos, “who?”
“That poor Count de Rochefort.”
“Well! exactly like me! I have just killed a man whose face is not
unknown to me. Unluckily, I hit him on the head and immediately his
face was covered with blood.”
“And he said nothing as he died?”
“Yes; he exclaimed, ‘Oh!’”
“I suppose,” answered D’Artagnan, laughing, “if he only said that, it
did not enlighten you much.”
“Well, sir!” cried the queen.
“Madame, the passage is quite clear and your majesty can continue your
road.”
In fact, the procession arrived, in safety at Notre Dame, at the front
gate of which all the clergy, with the coadjutor at their head, awaited
the king, the queen and the minister, for whose happy return they
chanted a _Te Deum_.
As the service was drawing to a close a boy entered the church in great
excitement, ran to the sacristy, dressed himself quickly in the choir
robes, and cleaving, thanks to that uniform, the crowd that filled the
temple, approached Bazin, who, clad in his blue robe, was standing
gravely in his place at the entrance to the choir.
Bazin felt some one pulling his sleeve. He lowered to earth his eyes,
beatifically raised to Heaven, and recognized Friquet.
“Well, you rascal, what is it? How do you dare to disturb me in the
exercise of my functions?” asked the beadle.
“Monsieur Bazin,” said Friquet, “Monsieur Maillard—you know who he is,
he gives holy water at Saint Eustache——”
“Well, go on.”
“Well, he received in the scrimmage a sword stroke on the head. That
great giant who was there gave it to him.”
“In that case,” said Bazin, “he must be pretty sick.”
“So sick that he is dying, and he wants to confess to the coadjutor,
who, they say, has power to remit great sins.”
“And does he imagine that the coadjutor will put himself out for him?”
“To be sure; the coadjutor has promised.”
“Who told you that?”
“Monsieur Maillard himself.”
“You have seen him, then?”
“Certainly; I was there when he fell.”
“What were you doing there?”
“I was shouting, ‘Down with Mazarin!’ ‘Death to the cardinal!’ ‘The
Italian to the gallows!’ Isn’t that what you would have me shout?”
“Be quiet, you rascal!” said Bazin, looking uneasily around.
“So that he told me, that poor Monsieur Maillard, ‘Go find the
coadjutor, Friquet, and if you bring him to me you shall be my heir.’
Say, then, Father Bazin—the heir of Monsieur Maillard, the giver of
holy water at Saint Eustache! Hey! I shall have nothing to do but to
fold my arms! All the same, I should like to do him that service—what
do you say to it?”
“I will tell the coadjutor,” said Bazin.
In fact, he slowly and respectfully approached the prelate and spoke to
him privately a few words, to which the latter responded by an
affirmative sign. He then returned with the same slow step and said:
“Go and tell the dying man that he must be patient. Monseigneur will be
with him in an hour.”
“Good!” said Friquet, “my fortune is made.”
“By the way,” said Bazin, “where was he carried?”
“To the tower Saint Jacques la Boucherie;” and delighted with the
success of his embassy, Friquet started off at the top of his speed.
When the _Te Deum_ was over, the coadjutor, without stopping to change
his priestly dress, took his way toward that old tower which he knew so
well. He arrived in time. Though sinking from moment to moment, the
wounded man was not yet dead. The door was opened to the coadjutor of
the room in which the mendicant was suffering.
A moment later Friquet went out, carrying in his hand a large leather
bag; he opened it as soon as he was outside the chamber and to his
great astonishment found it full of gold. The mendicant had kept his
word and made Friquet his heir.
“Ah! Mother Nanette!” cried Friquet, suffocating; “ah! Mother Nanette!”
He could say no more; but though he hadn’t strength to speak he had
enough for action. He rushed headlong to the street, and like the Greek
from Marathon who fell in the square at Athens, with his laurel in his
hand, Friquet reached Councillor Broussel’s threshold, and then fell
exhausted, scattering on the floor the louis disgorged by his leather
bag.
Mother Nanette began by picking up the louis; then she picked up
Friquet.
In the meantime the cortège returned to the Palais Royal.
“That Monsieur d’Artagnan is a very brave man, mother,” said the young
king.
“Yes, my son; and he rendered very important services to your father.
Treat him kindly, therefore, in the future.”
“Captain,” said the young king to D’Artagnan, on descending from the
carriage, “the queen has charged me to invite you to dinner to-day—you
and your friend the Baron du Vallon.”
That was a great honor for D’Artagnan and for Porthos. Porthos was
delighted; and yet during the entire repast he seemed to be
preoccupied.
“What was the matter with you, baron?” D’Artagnan said to him as they
descended the staircase of the Palais Royal. “You seemed at dinner to
be anxious about something.”
“I was trying,” said Porthos, “to recall where I had seen that
mendicant whom I must have killed.”
“And you couldn’t remember?”
“No.”
“Well, search, my friend, search; and when you have found, you will
tell me, will you not?”
“_Pardieu!_” said Porthos.
Chapter XC.
Conclusion.
On going home, the two friends found a letter from Athos, who desired
them to meet him at the Grand Charlemagne on the following day.
The friends went to bed early, but neither of them slept. When we
arrive at the summit of our wishes, success has usually the power to
drive away sleep on the first night after the fulfilment of long
cherished hopes.
The next day at the appointed hour they went to see Athos and found him
and Aramis in traveling costume.
“What!” cried Porthos, “are we all going away, then? I also have made
my preparations this morning.”
“Oh, heavens! yes,” said Aramis. “There’s nothing to do in Paris now
there’s no Fronde. The Duchess de Longueville has invited me to pass a
few days in Normandy, and has deputed me, while her son is being
baptized, to go and prepare her residence at Rouen; after which, if
nothing new occurs, I shall go and bury myself in my convent at
Noisy-le-Sec.”
“And I,” said Athos, “am returning to Bragelonne. You know, dear
D’Artagnan, I am nothing more than a good honest country gentleman.
Raoul has no fortune other than I possess, poor child! and I must take
care of it for him, since I only lend him my name.”
“And Raoul—what shall you do with him?”
“I leave him with _you_, my friend. War has broken out in Flanders. You
shall take him with you there. I am afraid that remaining at Blois
would be dangerous to his youthful mind. Take him and teach him to be
as brave and loyal as you are yourself.”
“Then,” replied D’Artagnan, “though I shall not have _you_, Athos, at
all events I shall have that dear fair-haired head by me; and though
he’s but a boy, yet, since your soul lives again in him, dear Athos, I
shall always fancy that you are near me, sustaining and encouraging
me.”
The four friends embraced with tears in their eyes.
Then they departed, without knowing whether they would ever see each
other again.
D’Artagnan returned to the Rue Tiquetonne with Porthos, still possessed
by the wish to find out who the man was that he had killed. On arriving
at the Hôtel de la Chevrette they found the baron’s equipage all ready
and Mousqueton on his saddle.
“Come, D’Artagnan,” said Porthos, “bid adieu to your sword and go with
me to Pierrefonds, to Bracieux, or to Du Vallon. We will grow old
together and talk of our companions.”